Forty Two
by Blue Yeti
Summary: HAITUS. Useless answers to questions asked, and those not asked. Which is more important – the question, or the answer? Which matters more – the past or the present? ArtemisButler novellength
1. Blue Diamond

**Disclaimer:** All characters and situations recognisable from the Artemis Fowl books belong to Eoin Colfer and his publishers, no infringement was intended and no profits are being made.  
**Author's Notes:** This is a sort-of sequel to My Queer Young Mind (). You don't really need to read that except in order to know that Artemis started a relationship with a boy at St. Bartleby's called Dana MacCaugry and started to question his own sexuality. Oh, yeah, btw this is slash, detailing more than one male/male homosexual relationship. The main one is Butler/Artemis, but both of these characters have other relationships within this story with original characters.  
Thanks to Ophelia (www.fanfiction.net/~opheliawhoisinsane) for the beta and to Biz () for the ceaseless, unrelenting 'encouragement'.  
**Author's Note 2:** The title 'Forty-Two' is a reference to _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ by Douglas Adams, where 42 was discovered to be the answer to the Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. But they didn't know what the question actually _was_.  


* * *

** Chapter One - Blue Diamond  **

  


12th of October, 1981. Over the Siberian plains, U.S.S.R.  
"Madame Ko," said Domovoi Butler to his sensei, "this is an impossible situation." 

"You believe that you cannot achieve the objective? If you feel that you are unable, not ready to do this I understand. Although, I had thought you had promise." 

"I shall do it. It is just that I would never have let this situation arise." 

And with that, an uncharacteristically dramatic note (and rather cocky, Madame Ko sighed), he jumped from the plane. 

He held his arms across his chest as he fell, and tried to think without thinking. To think using his muscles and the memory of training they held, rather than his mind, which played tricks on even the most disciplined disciple of the Madame. 

He was counting, judging when to open his parachute at the best moment, taking into account the target area and his own weight. But more of his consciousness was occupied with planning the task, which the Madame had only explained to him a moment before. 

He wasn't scared; not of the ground coming closer, not of the task, not of the guards, soldiers and army personnel down on the ground. The last fear he had been burdened with was the fear of the Madame when he was younger, much younger. He had had anxieties, but that was only teenage hormones, something which not even a Butler was immune to. Now, he feared only fear itself. 

He pulled the cord and straightened completely so there was no chance of the parachute strings becoming tangled around his body. 1500 feet… 1000… 500… 

He landed and dropped to the ground immediately, pulling the still air-filled white parachute silks towards him. 

The cold swirling in the air was intense, but he didn't notice. He was wearing white, white upon white, the instant camouflage for this area. He didn't hesitate before moving towards the target, barely visible on the horizon. 

He moved quickly along the ground, the only sound the scrape of dry snowflakes against one another. Closer to the compound he stopped, pulled out his sniper rifle that was loaded with tranquilizer darts rather than real bullets, some of those taking part in this testing being students and teachers of the discipline, each trying to achieve their own mission. For most of those involved it was practice, something that the Madame didn't usually believe in. But, for Domovoi, it was important. 

It was not truly important to anyone else. He knew that, and that was what caused the momentary consideration of a pause. 

He kept moving though, ever moving so as to not allow anyone time to focus on his shadow through the wind-blown snow. He did that a lot, wherever he was, whatever situation. He moved so that viewers were ever confused, it made things easier, transactions quicker. Even when he was standing still the potential energy he presented was enough for people to turn away, scared of what he was able to do. What they registered on the most primitive levels of their minds that he would be able to do to them, their bodies withered and diseased beside his own. 

He didn't like it that way, because to like was to feel pleasure, and he didn't find pleasure in his job, only ever the professional satisfaction of a job well done. 

He incapacitated a team of four who were moving through the snow, their outfits camouflaged so that they had thought they were unnoticeable, but not moving as stealthily as they were able to, they were arrogant in their own abilities. The Madame was going to have words with them in two days once they woke up. Only one – a tall African American – had seen Domovoi before forcibly seeing the back of his eyelids. 

He was almost at the complex by now, and although he had always been focused on the task, was always focused, this seemed to solidify into something tangible. Anyone would have been able to see it, if they had been able to see him. 

He entered it, and no one knew for more than 43 milliseconds. That is, they registered his presence and then, 43 milliseconds later, they were in no state to do anything about this. There was a call over the radio in Russian slang, directed to the gate guards, and Butler responded with an all clear. 

He moved on. 

The complex was of the same layout as all the military bases of the area, the best laid ground-plan for both offensives and defensives in the region. The cells were in the back right corner, backing onto the septic tank so the smell would discourage the prisoners. But his charge wasn't in the cells. His charge was in the other room. The one without light to glint of the machinery, which, if on the set of a Hollywood movie, would have glinted in a very ominous manner. Some things hadn't changed in a long time. 

Butler knew where the room was. He knew how to get there. He knew what, theoretically, was to be done. 

He also knew the standard paths that were taken on the randomly changing beats the soldiers were walking. He ducked as one passed on the outer perimeter. 

He took out eight personnel silently before getting to the door - including the tea-lady, who he knew had a double-revolver tucked between her volumous breasts – a rather dangerous position, worse than a man with a pistol down his trousers. 

He opened the door by force, since the keypad lock would take too long to manually break down. His charge was only a kid, probably about 12, unconscious, although that was better than the alternative. Kids never listened to orders when it came to matters of security - they were all too snotty-nosed, brought up on silver spoons. He had learnt that the hard way. 

The room was freezing cold, and things were glinting, but only with ice condensed upon their blades. The kid had been stripped so he was just wearing a singlet and a pair of thin pants, but he wasn't wounded. Butler felt a moment of despise for the Madame, she took some things too seriously; she shouldn't have endangered a kid in the Siberian weather for the sake of a test – he was probably the latest student, his facial structure reminding Butler of another of the body-guarding families. 

Butler pulled off his own jacket and wrapped it around the boy, and it was enough to completely engulf him, who seemed slight even for his age - or perhaps Butler had simply grown used to people of his own gigantic size. He was wasting time, but the protection of the principal was most important. He scooped the child up into his arms, arranging the form of the principal in such as way so the boy could not shot fatally -a bullet would have to pass through his own body first. 

And he moved out, back into the open areas of the compound, where the white of his snow outfit blended into the background seamlessly, so that the sentries he approached never realized anything. His feet made no sound on the icy ground, his breath didn't even seem to mist the air in the way that the boy's shallow - almost-hypothermic, he noted - gasps were, the way the breaths of the 'enemies' were. 

And soon - too soon, there was something wrong, he thought – they were out of the complex, Butler taking long strides through the snowdrifts towards the pickup point. And close, too close, there was a movement – white upon white, but still existing. He felt it in his pores, as a tickling on the back of his neck. It was more than a game for someone. 

He dropped to the snow-covered hollow, rolling his unconscious charge from his arms, making sure his flesh wasn't directly exposed to the frozen ground. The voice of the Madame echoed in his mind _'The principal cannot be shot if you are standing in front of him.'_ He could not leave the boy, but he would need his hands free for whoever it was out there, waiting for him. 

And over to Butler's right there was the movement, barely perceptible. Butler followed the man with his eyes – the man glanced over his own shoulder, slightly to his own right. There was more than one, probably three, judging from the numbers that would be needed to make a successful ambush in this particular area. The dart gun could only shoot one tranquilizer at a time, and they would notice in a moment if one of their fellows went down. He found the third man, and they knew – almost – where he was. 

Butler rose from the hollow, an abominable snowman, shaking millennia-old snow from its shoulders. He let the dart fly at the man furthest from him. The next was close enough that with one step he was able to grasp one tough shoulder, pulling the man closer as a make-shift human shield. The remaining man had drawn his weapon, and was shooting it regardless of his colleague in the way. _Mercenary,_ thought Butler. _Or possessing an aim that is more important than stalemates and banter._

Butler had pulled the weapon from his captive's hands - it was real, it was loaded with more than blanks. A bullet from the other's weapon skimmed his upper arm as he aimed in a fraction of a second and dispatched the last. His face was twisted in an 'oh' as he crumpled at the knees into the snow. 

The limp body – unconscious, likely to stay that way for a few hours at least, one 'friendly' bullet lodged in his shoulder – of Butler's human shield fell to the ground as well. 

The boy wasn't injured, and that was the most important thing. Butler moved on, the boy once more cradled in his arms. A thin trickle of Butler's blood made it's way down the sleeve of his shirt. The tranquilizer gun was reloaded, but he kept the other man's gun as well, resting lightly in his left palm. Something wasn't right, it shouldn't be this real – no one should be in danger. 

The pick-up point wasn't safe; there was another party of men with real guns lining the clearing, hidden behind the trees and snow-covered roots. He moved slowly around the clearing, dashing from hiding place to hiding place, taking out whatever soldiers he met with small movements and pinches involving nerve centers and pressure points. No one saw him, but after they were all dispatched Butler moved further away, up a hill so that he could keep an eye on the clearing where the Madame had said a helicopter would be coming to meet him. 

He tended to his wound, then treated the boy as best he could – but still he did not regain consciousness. Butler waited. He was good at waiting. 

The sun had set a few hours past when the Madame appeared in a snowmobile a little way away, no lights shining. She knew that he could see her, because he would not have stopped in a place where he did not have full view of the surrounding area. 

There would be others with her, ones he was meant to dispatch but didn't yet know who they were. And there may be a few more of the real bullets type waiting in the coniferous forest, having planned to stay out of the way until he had let down his guard. 

He walked down the hill anyway, not feeling any of the tell-tale signs of eyes focusing on his form. The boy stirred for the first time since Butler had freed him from the compound. Then he seemingly fell back to sleep. Butler walked through the snow without sound, blending into the background in such a way that it was unlikely that a rather annoyed, probably cold observer would be paying enough attention to be able to see him. 

Then he approached the Madame, who was just outside the tree line, on the edge of a large, snow-covered plane. A circle of acolytes, students and graduates surrounded him. The Madame's face was expressionless, which was enough to cause Butler to turn. He scanned the circle, then shot one of the Madame's people in the torso with the tranquilizer gun. 

He turned back to the Madame. "I would like some shoes and proper clothes for the boy, as well as some blankets." The Madame nodded to one in the circle and the young man removed himself from the circle to obtain the items from a mobile on the snow a while away. 

"And how do you suppose Sir Parks was a threat, Acolyte?" Asked Madame Ko of Butler, nodding to the man he'd just shot. 

"He was the one who planned to have this boy taken out for real, Madame." 

"True." 

"Who is he?" Butler gestured with his head at the boy still held in his arms – he would not give up his charge to any of these people here, he trusted no one. Including the Madame. 

"A student by name of Neil Tolstovoy. A member of a family who has been involved in Russian Mafiya. Which is the main reason the test was to take place here, even though it was your native country." 

"And why would you endanger the life of a 12-year-old boy for the sake of a test, Madame." Butler was angry, yet hid most of it in the way that he had been so well trained to do, for she had known about the men with real bullets and still had done nothing. All for a test. Some things should not be put at risk for the sake of an 18-year-old getting a tattoo. 

"Because all tests should have an unexpected element. And how was I to know how you faired in real combat, when this can't be tested in any conventional manner. I needed to see if I was right about you, Butler." And this was the moment. Butler waited, as he always did. 

"And were you?" 

"Yes." She gave him a slip of paper with some basic information printed on it in her neat hand. He almost smiled. 

"Thank you." 

She nodded, stiff-backed as always. _Thank you, Domovoi. _   


**24th of June, 2006; Saint Bartleby's School for Young Gentlemen, Co. Wicklow, IRELAND**  
At 6"2' with a slim figure, Artemis Fowl looked like he should be lanky. His proportions were just not constructive to moving with grace and poise. But that was the thing about Fowl – he moved like particularly sophisticated liquid anyway, it was part of his nature. And that was the second most annoying thing about Artemis, in Dana MacCaugry's mind anyway. 

The first was his general disability to consider anything important enough to warrant his focused attention. 

Artemis' intelligence also annoyed Dana, but he thought it was rather discriminatory to hold that against him really. 

"Are you going to say anything, MacCaugry? Or just stand there for a few hours looking like a Neanderthal?" 

"What do you want me to say?" Dana replied, but Artemis completed the length of the pool before he decided to answer. 

"Whatever it is that you feel you must." 

"Why do I bother? You know it all anyway." 

Artemis smirked, as he was liable to do on occasion. "Yes. Yes, I do." 

"Do you have to be so damn smug about it all? Please!" 

"It would be dishonest to pretend that I'm not knowledgeable." 

"You have no people skills, Artemis. None." 

Artemis grinned, then did another tumble turn and started down the length of the pool once more. "Who's really going to hold that against me? I'm the genius-boy, I'm meant to have social problems. It's in textbooks that I should. I know, I wrote some of them." 

"Just a question, a question for you who knows all. Do you have a conscience?" 

"If it would make you feel better, then yes, I do. I'm not a sociopath at any rate. Although if that state is even in part created by environment then it's amazing that I'm not." 

"Do you even care when you tread upon everyone, treating them like particularly useless slaves that need to be replaced soon?" 

"No one smart ever treated their slaves like dirt, because then the slaves might rise up against their master, or, at least, be so malnourished that they couldn't complete their work. Who would want that?" 

"Well, some other metaphor about having a superiority complex. Something with nasty meanings." 

"Now, now, you don't want to make me uneasy, Dana. Genii have such a high rate of suicide." 

"Shut up, Artemis! And you'd know of your own mental issues years before they actually appeared." 

"You just want me all to yourself, which is entirely unreasonable." 

Dana opened and closed his mouth a few times, wondering what, if anything, would give him an advantage over his peer. He came to the conclusion of nothing. It wasn't really a comforting thought. 

"Why? In normal relationships there is such a thing as faithfulness. And, hey, even honesty would be nice." 

"Nothing is 'normal', Dana. Faithfulness and honesty are actually characteristics of a minority of relationships. However, our experimentation is rather normal in that it does not require faithfulness or commitment. Don't look for a husband in me. Dean Smyth on the other hand seems like just your type. Why do you have such an issue concerning possession?" 

"I don't need to answer that; you've probably written a psych report for the school on me." 

"Such a lack of faith yourself. Hypocrites are one group of people who irritate me far more than the average soul." 

"I'm not a hypocrite. I just believe that you are a very skilled actor. I know you are." 

"Naturally. The question you really should want the answer to is: when am I acting, and, in reverse, when am I not? Life is an act, Dana; nothing is real. No one is ever real, and you can only know what he or she lets you see. You don't want to see what I'm not letting you see. Keep that in mind." 

That was Artemis' dismissal, but Dana stayed. Artemis turned around yet again and moved down the pool, wondering vaguely about how long it would take Dana to leave. 

"Maybe I do." 

There was no reply. 

"Will you at least pretend to care, Artemis?" 

Silence, broken by splashes. 

"I'm going to go now. We won the Rugby against Dunbar Park and we're into the Grand Finals; I'm going to the celebration with the rest of the school. Come if you want to." 

Artemis did another tumble-turn.   


**25th of October, 2006; Fowl Manor, Co. Dublin, IRELAND**  
"Leave, Butler." 

In the darkness Artemis knew that Butler's brow was creasing; Artemis had not ordered him away in almost a month, and only then for a good reason. But Butler didn't question it. 

"As you wish, sir." 

He moved from the bed, and the mattress bounced back to its rest position. 

"Good night, Artemis." 

"Good night, Domovoi." 

The door opened, distilling a small amount of light through the room. It closed again, Butler having been as silent as he always was. 

The dream had been disturbing, and too real. Too possible. So possible that fate (or Hollywood) must interfere, because an event that clichéd doesn't ever take place outside the cinema. 

Artemis closed his eyes once more, and, in an uncharacteristic gesture, wished for dreamless sleep. In his mind he heard lobster claws clicking on tiles… as the world stopped, was silent, was so still that everything was moving at light speed.   


**15th of June, 2006; St. Bartleby's.**  
According to a few of Artemis's less sober classmates, the craic at the celebration was terrific. Artemis didn't really think much of their idea of a good time, but Colm Merrigan had 'shifted' him under a table – _modern dialects of the young were so crude_ - and although it was horrible, it was better than nothing. 

He settled upon his bed, cross-legged in the meditation pose that Butler had insisted was the best for keeping personal focus. It was almost one am, and he had left the party early. He had passed the English Master on the way back to his room, who had been heading to break up the noise, but perhaps to sample the alcohol, being the youngest member of the staff and rather excited about the Rugby results himself. 

After a moment of reflection he pulled his laptop towards him and opened the screen up. He was glad the summer holidays would soon be upon them, because he was getting next to no work done at school. His mother had been willing to allow him to not return to school last year, but Artemis Senior had insisted upon it, mainly because he was worried about Artemis's personal illegal plans interfering with his own, those which were still a heavily guarded secret from his wife. 

Artemis had plans so that he would never have to come back here after the summer holidays – holidays that were fast approaching. If he was honest with himself, if he was a less intelligent person – if he was, frankly, less egocentric with such evidence as to why he should be so – he would say he was behind in his plans, but he didn't. Even if he had not finalized some aspects of the plan, even if he had not managed to gather some of the more obscure resources needed by the holidays he would still achieve the objective. His father would have to face up to the fact that he wasn't the best, that his 'empire' had more holes in it than Swiss cheese, that his legitimate businesses relied to heavily on small things, things which could be brought to fail so easily. 

There was five days before the end of term, when all the chronically stupid aristocratic heirs to failing families would go back to their manors and halls. A lot more can be done in five days than is usually expected, and it was not a vitally time-dependant plan, it did not need to be in place for a month yet. Everything would go perfectly. 

He was Artemis Fowl the Second; there was no other way it could go.   


**12th of October, 1981; Siberia region, 3 hours North-East of Omsk, U.S.S.R. **  
The air shimmering above the frozen desert planes was below zero, as it usually was. The sun had set, but it was approaching winter so it was not late, not by their clocks. The sunlight that had reflected off the dry ice that afternoon had gone; disappearing into the ether like the dream it seemed to be. The moon had risen an hour or so ago - huge, immense, looming, illuminating the ice, dry-packed snow with pale, silver-tinged light. 

Butler arrived. He was alone, wearing not much more than heavy trousers and a thick jacket. He had partially grown up in this region - before his Grandmother had moved to St. Petersburg - and if not here, then close enough to make little difference. Madame Ko did not have that luxury, and was quite cold, but she had enough self-discipline to not make this noticeable. 

The Madame surveyed him, considering everything he was bringing to the ranks of her successful pupils. She saw promise, but not actuality. She saw strength, but not as much confidence – which was good, for confidence was cockiness at this age. She saw a lot of things that could go one way or another, a lot of fear buried so deep that almost no one even knew of its existence. 

She didn't bother with greetings; the simple, formalized platitudes that sometimes were the only thing responsible for keeping Butler sane. 

"You haven't phoned your father, have you, Domovoi?" 

Butler didn't even consider lying; no one lied to Madame Ko, and if even the thought was to pass through someone's inebriated mind, she would know. He nodded in affirmation. 

"Would you like me to notify him of your success through a letter?" 

"Please. Thank you, Madame." 

"If you wish, you may call me Hyacinth." She pulled him to his feet, looking up at him, 2 feet of height differentiating between them. "I'm proud of you, Domovoi. Very proud. The youngest before you to graduate from my academy, or the academies of any of my family, was 22." 

She grinned, and it looked completely out of place to Butler on his sensei's passive face. "But you knew that already, didn't you. You wanted to beat that record. You wanted to prove yourself the best, the best that has ever been. But you still have much to learn, Domovoi, simply nothing more that I can teach you." She crinkled her lips up, a characteristic of hers when she was considering how to say something prominent with the least wastage of words. "I know you'll succeed though, if you do not become consumed with pride, with judgements of others. It does not do well to think of yourself as distinctly different from all those around you, because then you may be surprised. It does not do well to think of others as being wrong, they are simply different." 

Domovoi nodded once more, standing on ceremony as he always had with the Madame. 

"Not everyone will hate you. Not everyone will be unable to understand. Remember that. The thoughts of one are not the thoughts of them all." 

"I understand, Madame." 

"Hyacinth." She reprimanded him, as she'd done for 7 years now. 

"Yes, Hyacinth." 

"Sit down, Domovoi. Here, on this stool. Take off your shirt." 

"Yes, Hyacinth." 

The Madame prepared the tools, the bright blue dye that would stain Butler's skin with the diamond. One of his proudest marks, sitting amongst scars and triumphs, one of those that proved his strength – emotionally, physically, mentally – far more than his rippling muscles. She swabbed his left shoulder with a disinfectant. 

She leaned forward, pulling a pair of well-worn glasses from a pocket and popping them upon her nose. She rested the tip of the needle against his slightly-tanned skin. 

"Work is not a substitute for life, Domovoi." 

"I know, Madame." 

"Hyacinth. No, you do not. Work is not a method to achieve cowardly actions. You must do what is best, for the most pure reasons you can find within yourself. I can see it in you. You work rather than face difficult situations where the variables can't be measured in quantifiable terms. Separation from reality, but giving yourself an excuse of why you should do this. There is no good reason though." 

"Are you accusing me?" 

"My dearest Domovoi, you are running. Not accusation, information. You are not a coward, not in matters of physical strength, mental challenge. Emotionally, you are weaker. You hide from emotion, for such things are impossible to measure, impossible to judge without subjection." 

"I do not. And if I do, it is as I have been taught." There was a light rebuke in Butler's tone, instigating her hypocrisy - something which no other acolyte would dare to do with their sensei, no one would dare think even the thoughts in such a sarcastic manner. 

"A bodyguard's job is not only one of separation, it is also one of connection. You must be separated from your principal to be able to complete your mission, yet one of the paths towards such completion is connection with said principal. Your life will be one of contradictions, Domovoi – in morals, in ideals, in your employers and within yourself. You cannot hope to succeed if you cannot see this. Your personal thoughts have to constantly be floating free within the shades of grey, because you will not be able to argue, will not have the freedom of choice to say yes or no, not truly. Politically you can't be left or right, mentally, you cannot be for nor against. You must agree with your principal without giving any input, you must not argue nor have an opinion." 

"I can hide my thoughts. I always have." 

"Not suppression from the outside world, true neutrality. There is a great level of difference between these two, Domovoi." 

"Yes, Hyacinth." 

"Don't you 'Yes, Hyacinth' me, Domovoi! You must _listen_!" 

"I am. I shall work upon this. I shall not be so strict within my own thoughts." 

"Good." The poke and injection of bright blue dye went on, silence reigned. It was a comfortable silence though, one that spoke of appreciation and respect. 

After a time, the outline of the multifaceted diamond almost completed, Madame Ko spoke once more. 

"Domovoi, I know your father well. He only needs time. Once he has examined things more completely he shall come around, he shall accept you." 

"He has, almost. Emily is the one who can't accept who I am." 

"Ah, but do you need to busy yourself with the opinions of your step-mother? If you realize that her thoughts are not your own, nor even those of your father, it shall be alright." 

"I know. But I…" he pulled himself up, forsaking emotion as he had been taught. "It doesn't matter, rejection does not matter to me. Isolation only betters my performance." 

And the Madame - Hyacinth at this moment in time - wondered if she had succeeded too well with this pupil. She taught her pupils to not take everything at face value, to create their own priorities, their own ideas and thoughts on society, on individuals. Most of them ended up analyzing her own teachings in the same light. She hoped that he would not take everything she said at face value, because she had said them because that was what he had wanted – and expected – to hear. Not everything was truth, much was psychological bullshit, carefully designed to create the perfect mindset needed for the protection profession. 

He was highly qualified, yet so susceptible to ideas – if only because he was so young, trying to find a place to exist. He would grow, all he needed were the right prods in the right directions. He needed the opportunity to find his own ideas, his own place. 

"When did you tell your father?" 

"Eleven and a half months ago, Hyacinth." 

---   
_I stand before my father, straight-backed, slightly taller, slightly broader, less wise. I loved him so much when I was young, he would visit me with stories and gifts. And fresh raw scars, the flesh tinged pink – which were always much more important to me than the sweets and toy soldiers. I had a real soldier, and I didn't need to dream, I knew what I would become. _

"Papa?" 

My father smiles at me, and I smile as well. People think we Butlers are without feelings, but it's just we hide it. We love and hate as fiercely and passionately as anyone else, perhaps more so, because we spend so long learning to suppress it – so we understand emotion and it's importance at a much younger age, and we are able to appreciate feelings so much more. 

"You have something to tell us, Domovoi?" Papa wrapped an arm around his young wife, a woman almost 24 years his junior. He could be her father as well as mine; she should be my elder sister rather than my mother figure. 

"Two things, Papa. One less important than the other." 

I take a breath, waiting for the moment - thinking that somehow gongs will clang, the sky will darken. That something would mark this as important, because it is. No gongs, no mysterious clouds gathering in the Miami sky. I almost feel inclined to laugh at my own stupidity. "Papa, I…" And I should be laughing at myself, for I shouldn't be tongue-tided. I know exactly what I want to say. I slip into speaking in Russian, our native language; I had spoken in English for the sake of Emily. Perhaps the words will come easier then. 

"Papa, I'm gay." And in that moment, when the realization that I had spoken the words with something more than mere breath behind them, with someone there to here... I'm so amazed that I managed to say it, and nothing can be taken back anymore. I want to explain everything; I want to explain so many things that I've hidden for so long. And I'm about to, the lightness that came with admission making me smile; smile so wide. 

And his face tightens, his body stiffens; I can see the wheels turning, blocking as random thoughts of betrayal and abnormality lodge themselves in his mind and make the wheels grind to a holt as things get caught in the spokes of progress. And suddenly, the smile of relief gone, I'm pleading, pleading with my eyes in a way that I hadn't known I needed to. I had thought he loved me as much as I still loved him, when he was my very own toy soldier. 

"What did he say, Alexander?" Asks Emily, trying to catch Papa's attention. He's looking at me, willing me to take it all back. "What did you say, Butler?" 

And it's real, as I'd once known – years ago I had known it would happen like this, but my fantasies of perfection had made it so I barely remembered the reality as I had once known it. Again, I've let myself down. But the words are still easy, because they no longer seem to matter at all. "I told him that I'm homosexual. He doesn't seem to be happy to hear it though." And she was expecting me to be joking, not remembering that Butlers never lie. 

"Get out, Domovoi." 

"As you wish, Papa." And I know I'm only holding back tears because I'm as disbelieving as Emily – not disbelief, simply the persistence of a fantasy, non-existent world where things were different. And I'm a Butler. Butlers never cry. 

I turn around. I've never lived in this house of theirs, never in America – the land of the free - even, and I was only stopping here to visit before making my way back to Switzerland to complete another phase of my training with Madame Ko.. That was the other news. The Madame had said that I would probably be able to earn my blue diamond before my 21st birthday. 

Papa would have taken that news better, even if it did mean that I had beat his personal record.   
--- 

"You need no one other than yourself and your principal to succeed, Domovoi." 

"Yes, Hyacinth." 

The tattooing went on, the oppressive Siberian cold – this barren world within a world had been used as a prison, an exile in years past - biting at Butler's exposed skin. Butler could survive the cold; he could survive the prick of the needle, penetrating his skin again and again like the vaccine for smallpox had. He was a Butler. Survival was his business. 


	2. Emil

**Disclaimer****:** Artemis Fowl, Angeline Fowl, Domovoi Butler and any other creations of Eoin Colfer's belong to Eoin Colfer. The rest are the property of moi, and I would be very, very appreciative if you didn't scorn them, steal them as your boyfriends, throw rocks at them for being stupid, pour boiling oil over them and set fire to their boots or steal them without permission. If you want to do any of these things tell me, and I'll probably do it for you in the next chapter.

**Author's Note** There is now ART for this story. The wonderful, highly-gifted Tyranny drew a picture of "bisexual!shoulder-length-haired!sixteen-year-old!Artemis (smirking evilly)" for me, after asking how to make a character look bisexual (the proper answer is to shove in Olivia Bladwin on one side and Domovoi Butler on the other), which is the Artemis that I'm playing with here. This pic can be found at http:www.geocities. com/ringbearer87/ tyranny.htm (remove spaces). This story will also in the next chapter have some connection with Ophelia who is Insane's story 'Concupiscence' found at Brilliant story, brilliant author, brilliant writing so READ IT (remove the various spaces in that url first).

**Chapter Two - Emil**

**New Year's Day, 1979; Wiesbaden, GERMANY**

A car was waiting to pick him up when Domovoi Butler's flight from Geneva arrived in Wiesbaden. The driver had looked him up and down, scrutinizing this latest member of the Jäger family staff. He saw a man at least 6'10" in height, probably closer to 6'11", with impossibly broad shoulders and an immaculate suit that he looked supremely comfortable in. His hair was shaven close to his scalp, but not quite bald, and sunglasses protected his eyes from the sunlight glaring off the snow. He had a light acne problem, and if the driver had known him before he would have said that some of his movements were almost nervous. He had one suitcase, and was carrying it with ease even though it had multiple fluorescent orange 'Heavy Load' stickers placed on it by the airline. He was unusual to look at, most definitely, especially considering who the driver had been expecting.

"_Herr Butler_?" The man - who the driver had been told was only 15, though he barely believed it now, seeing such an adolescent in the flesh - nodded. The driver held out his hand and Butler took it. He had a very firm handshake, one that still gave the impression that it was stilted so as not to cause pain. "Wilhelm Beire, chauffeur to the Jäger family."

"_Guten__ Abend,_ _Herr_ _Beire_."

"The car is down the street," he said in German. "Follow me, Butler."

Butler nodded, and followed the chauffeur to a spotless black Mercedes - but it was not black, Butler noted, only an extremely dark shade of green - with tinted windows. Wilhelm opened the boot and Butler placed the heavy case inside without showing the strain. After a moment when Butler stood undecided about whether he should get into the front passenger seat or the back, Wilhelm gestured that he should take the front.

"_Herr_ _Beire_," Butler spoke after almost five minutes where they had sat in silence, a thick German voice performing a comedy show on a scratchy radio. "Would you be able to tell me something about Lord Jäger?"

"Most people call me Wilhelm. Lord Jäger is an old man who pretends to be young and succeeds far too often, much to the chagrin of Frau Faerber, the housekeeper. His days for warfare and the backstabbing of politics are over, but he hasn't realised this yet. His wife, Lady Jäger, is kindly, though sometimes her age shows in more than the colour of her hair. Their son's son is currently staying at the Hall as well, his name is Emil." Wilhelm paused for a moment, changing lanes so that he could make a turn off towards a small town that Butler didn't catch the name of. "Please, do not speak of the War to Jäger. Nor of East Berlin. He is sometimes ashamed of his country in the face of strangers."

"Everyone is." Then Butler clarified what he had just said, realizing that it could have looked supremely rude. "Everyone is ashamed of their own country in some way."

"Are you ashamed of Switzerland? The neutral country?"

"I came from Switzerland today, but I am Russian. With some other European nationalities mixed in, but mostly Russian."

Wilhelm nodded, taking a fortifying breath before continuing a potentially delicate political conversation with a boy who could probably simultaneously compress his skull in one over-large hand while crushing his balls in another.

"Are you ever ashamed of Russia then, _Herr Butler_?"

Butler glanced over at the chauffeur, sizing up how much of such a question was pointed. "Sometimes I'm ashamed of Russia. Sometimes, in some ways. And do you share Lord Jäger's shame?"

Wilhelm inclined his head in the affirmative, but barely.

They didn't speak until they turned into a long, graveled drive, parklands on either side and an impressive sandstone house looming at the end. "I'll take you to meet the Jägers, then Frau Faerber will show you to your room."

"_Danke__ schön_, _Herr Beire_."****

Lord Dominic Jäger and Lady Inga looked up from their conversation when the chauffeur knocked and opened the door into the parlour. Then continued to look up as Butler sidled into the room like an oversized school boy entering his principal's office, hiding his nervousness under a thick covering of bravado. He was used to this, he had had a principle four times before, but he was afraid of making a mistake somewhere, however unlikely he knew that possibility to be.

Butler bowed deeply. "Butler, a student from Madame Ko's Academy, at your service, Sir and Madam."

Lady Inga recovered from her shock surprisingly well, given the circumstances. She inclined her head in his direction and laboured to get up from her seat; it didn't work on the first try and she fell back down onto the couch. She recovered as if it had never happened at all. "I'm Lady Inga Jäger, and this is my husband, Lord Jäger," she said, indicating the grey-haired man sitting beside her. Her own hair was a distinguished, pure white, shining like the snow outside, the light from the hearth fire reflected in her eyes and turned the brown to yellow, her cheekbones were still distinguished, and you knew that the sagging skin was covering delicate bones. She had probably been a stunning beauty, in her time, and Butler was painfully aware of his youth in the face of the lines stretching out from her eyes.

"Do you have a first name?" Her voice was grandmotherly; she almost reminded Butler of what he had thought his grandmother should have been like when he was younger.

"It is against protocol for me to reveal my name to my principal."

"Ah, yes, of course. Um… Would you like me to give you the grand tour, _Herr Butler_?"

"Thank you, Ma'am. That would be very useful for me to be able to fulfill my duties."

"Of course, of course. Well then, come with me, Butler."****

**30th of June, St Bartleby's School for Young Gentlemen**

The boys - young adults, surveys would call them, but Artemis knew that most barely had the maturity of dried-out play-doh - were leaving the school in drones. The younger ones were excited about holidays - back with their maids and housekeepers - but hid this under the obliged snobbiness that they knew was the only state of existence that should be operating out of their pretty heads. The elder ones, including those who would be going into Sixth Year in September with Artemis - though Artemis would not be returning to the school - were slightly more composed, but not exactly the aristocratic material they were meant to be. The Sixth Years who had just graduated - no thanks to the education system - had left the school on Tuesday of last week, and that had been an emotional thing for them, supposedly. Artemis honestly couldn't see why.

Dana was making his way over to meet Artemis, something he would not usually do when they were in the presence of so many people. He looked irritable. Artemis grinned, because he knew that it would annoy the other boy, and then turned and moved further away from the crowds, down one of the garden paths.

Dana caught up once Artemis stopped, and stood in silence for a moment in front of Artemis before speaking - wary still, but this 'relationship' with Artemis was doing wonders for his self-determination. "I don't suppose you'd like to do something sappy like try to meet up sometime during the holidays."

Artemis gave him a Look.

"Yeah, that's what I'd thought. I knew that you were expecting me to ask though, and no one lets down the almighty Artemis Fowl the Second. Who would I be to defy tradition and not attempt to do that which I already know will be refused?"

"Probably far more confident; less reliant as well." Artemis gave a smirk, his usual - a slight upturn to the right corner of his mouth, a glint in his dark eyes and sheer potentiality in his eyebrows as they threatened to rise in mockery. Then Artemis moved forward a step and kissed Dana, a hand on his neck, holding the other boy in place. Dana stiffened with the fear of being seen by some of the many people who were moving around the grounds today, and Dana and Artemis were still not far from the main drive where the epicenter of the activity lay. Artemis broke the kiss and leaned back, licking his lips rather suggestively, but perhaps only contentedly.

"You still worry far too much, MacCaugry. No one really cares what anyone else does, and if they did, do you really think that anyone would believe it? Some goggling First Year pupil would be dismissed as wanting to cause a stir around two of the Seniors if he were to say anything."

"And someone from our own year?"

"It would be brushed off as well. The student would obviously be jealous and frustrated about that _insanely_ annoying Artemis Fowl - who gets everything he wants and knows all the answers, the imperious, arrogant genius - so wanting to cause him some trouble just before the holidays so that said genius's father would find out and hopefully do some nasty things to his son and heir over the break."

"Principal Roach?" (Principal Rupert Guiney had retired at the Fowls' insistence and instigation in 2005.)

"His wife works for my father; he wouldn't say anything to displease Artemis Fowl the First - and not only because of what happened to Veronica Guerin's contemporary in December last year." Artemis smirked again. "No situation exists that can't be argued out of, Dana. Once you realize that things will be far better off for you."

"Believe it or not, Fowl, I don't really aspire to be an uncaring bastard as much as you do. Nor as egotistical. Surely that strategy of yours - arguing logic against truth - must cause more problems in the long run so that the short-term positives are outweighed by the negatives."

"You're starting to sound like an accountant, Dana." Artemis pointed out, then, as an afterthought, "it's not attractive."

"It's from the contact with you. Your vocabulary must be rubbing off on me." Dana caught his tongue before he continued, wondering if what he had been about to say was too dangerous in this moment of not-quite conflict, which was rather rare for them. Drawing attention to the fact that Artemis treated everything and everyone as facts and figures and quantifiable entities was probably not a sensible thing to do. And, of course, there was barely any point in doing so, because Artemis really did already know all about his own mind. It was obvious Artemis knew he had been about to say something more, so he did: "You must be glad that your time is so well spent, that I'm gaining something more substantial than snogs from your presence."

"Excruciatingly glad, I'm sure." Artemis smiled slightly, something which definitely had the power to shock Dana, and did, because it _seemed_ as though there was no deeper motivation behind it rather than simply the expression of mirth. But Dana had become jaded over the months he had known Artemis, and he didn't believe it. "You know, Dana, maybe we _would_ be able to meet up sometime over the summer. I've got some business in Glasgow I have to attend to in the next month or so, I'm sure I'd be able to make the journey into the Scottish highlands to pay you a visit."

And that shocked Dana so much that Artemis actually laughed at the look on his face, and it wasn't an innocent laugh. Not at all.

"Are you serious, Artemis?"

"Of course I am. Why? Was the invitation not one you wanted me to take up? Never give out courtesy invitations or offers of assistance, because one day someone will take you up on it, probably when you least want them to."

"No, I want to see you sometime."

"Good." And Artemis kissed him again, slowly, a hand messing up his hair, and this time it was quite mutual, Dana even returning the gesture by running his fingers though Artemis's too-long hair that rested on his shoulders.

Dana stiffened and his hand froze. There was someone coming up from behind Dana; someone who wasn't making noise because they were the type who didn't care where their foot fell, but someone who was making noise so that he would be heard and the possibly embarrassing situation would be lessened slightly.

Artemis opened his eyes, broke the kiss, did not move away from Dana at all (his breath could still be felt on the other boy's lips), nor even look away, staring into Dana's eyes as he spoke. "Good afternoon, Butler."

"I trust you are well, Master Artemis." And, after barely a second's pause, distinctly not looking at Dana, he asked: "are you ready to leave?"

"Of course." Artemis broke the eye contact with Dana, moving away and focusing instead on Butler and the act of returning home. Butler took that as a cue and moved towards where Artemis's suitcase was leaning against the granite wall. "My case was brought out by a porter, Butler, but I can carry it. There is no need to trouble yourself with it." Artemis picked up said case, Butler giving a slight nod at his charge's thoughtfulness that had become commonplace over the three years since the emergence of Butler's mysterious chest problems.

Artemis glanced back, "Good bye, MacCaugry."

"See ya, Fowl."

Dana _really_ hated Artemis's games. And he rarely even remotely understood them.

**2nd of January, 1979; Jäger Hall**

Butler's back was perfectly straight, only a few centimeters from the wall at all points. Lord Jäger was preparing for a political meeting he was having in Wiesbaden in a few hours time, so Butler was waiting outside the room until he was finished.

A maid with her blonde hair pulled back into a high pony-tail moved past him, slowing so she could catch a inquisitive look at him from her peripheral vision, then speeding up to a overly-fast walk when she realized he knew she'd done that.

The next person to come along the hall was attired in a dress-shirt and expensive trousers, probably about eighteen or nineteen but not any older; most likely the Jäger grandson that Beire had mentioned. He stopped in front of Butler and unashamedly looked him up and down, discerning and openly curious.

"_Guten__ tag_. I'm Emil Jäger. And you're Butler, the bodyguard."

Butler nodded, once.

"How old are you?" Emil asked. His voice seemed to put the wrong depth on the wrong words, leading to a sing-song accent like that of Northern Ireland, only in German, which didn't seem to quite work at all. "I was told that you were only fifteen," he continued, "but I don't quite believe it."

Butler shook his head. "No, I'm fifteen. Sixteen on the sixth of February."

The grandson looked up at him again; Butler was at least a foot taller than him. "Why are you so young? How can you be a bodyguard when you're only fifteen?"

"This assignment is part of my training. I should complete my training and gain the blue diamond by the time I am twenty-three or so."

"This is your first assignment, then?"

Butler smiled slightly, ironically. "No, it is my fifth. I begun my official training at age ten, and have had a principal for six months of every year since.

Emil whistled in amazement. "Thirteen years of training? What happens if you decide, after all those years, that you don't want to be a bodyguard?"

"I won't." The young heir looked incredulous, his eyebrows rising to eloquently express his skepticism. Butler elaborated. "Those in my family have always been bodyguards and retainers. My ancestors were champions to the ailing English Kings in the 12th Century, and we have been companions to a family for a century before that - some linguists believe that the noun 'butler' was originally in reference to my family."

"Those in my family have always been aristocratic bastards, to use an oxymoron, but that hardly means I'll go through thirteen years of training to achieve the same."

Butler shook his head. "It's more than that. It's more than tradition, or about what's expected from a Butler. I was brought up expecting to start my training at ten years old, anticipating it and going to the dojo with an uncle or my father every afternoon. But that was all I ever wanted. And I know that it was all that was ever expected of me as well, but that doesn't mean that to be a Butler isn't what I actually want to be."

"But it's like being forced into the family business, or becoming a lawyer because your father and your grandfather and your great grandfather were all lawyers; I certainly don't feel the urge to be a lawyer of the political caste, however much my family might want me to be one." The question was in his voice as well as his words - he had a way with words. "Didn't you ever want to be something different? Didn't you ever want to do your own thing in defiance of," Emil lowered his voice dramatically in imitation of Butler, "'the Butler tradition'? I mean… you should have a choice as to who you want to be. Especially in an occupation like bodyguarding - it's dangerous, it requires dangerous acts."

"What else apart from bodyguarding or professional wrestling am I suited for? There aren't really that many occupations that need people six-foot-eleven tall."

"There aren't that many occupations that _forbid_ you to be six-foot-eleven. You could do anything except perhaps take up acting as a midget."

"I enjoy being a bodyguard." Butler felt he had to defend his chosen profession and the tradition of 32 generations of Butlers, even though he knew he didn't need to justify his decisions to everyone who questioned it.

"Why? Because you get to stand outside my Grandfather's door for an hour of a morning?"

Butler smiled slightly, "it's thinking time." A slightly bigger smile. "A lot of it."

Emil smiled at him as well. "I guess I'm not the best sort to be lecturing someone on being sure about their future - all I know is what I don't want to do, not what I do want to do. At least you have faith in what you're planning to do. You have plans…"

Emil sighed and ran a hand through his sandy hair. He sank down onto an ornamental couch that gave some shape to the otherwise huge and imposingly bland hallway. Looking up at Butler from a sitting position wasn't any worse than looking up at him while standing. "What _are_ you planning to do, Butler? Become a bodyguard for a US President?"

"Become a bodyguard for a Fowl, if I'm good enough."

"A Fowl? A chicken?"

It was a bad joke, but Butler still smiled anyway, almost laughing. He didn't hear enough jokes, bad or good, in his line of work. "There's a family in Ireland named the Fowls. Our family and theirs are linked, and have been since the Crusades. When a Fowl is born they are bonded for life with a Butler; it's a special relationship they end up having, the Fowl growing up with a Butler always by his side."

Emil looked at Butler's face - his eyes were shining when he thought of it, his dream was mapped onto his young face for anyone to see. "What if the kid's a brat?"

Butler smiled again, still thinking of the honour of having a Fowl as a principle. "Then it's up to the Butler to train him to not be a brat. A Butler has a huge amount of influence over their Fowl, of course: they spend more time with their principal than the parents would. I'd have the power of change, then."

Emil rubbed a hand over his cheek. "What happens if one of the pairing dies? What if the Butler died - if you died - would the Fowl get another one?"

"There are a few cases where they have, but that was long ago, and only if the death was when the Fowl was still very young. Another Butler will take up guarding him, most probably - we _are_ the best - but they won't have the same relationship as the original pairing, there won't be the same formalities attached. Originally a Butler took up the position at only age thirteen or fourteen, and was like an older brother. My Uncle took up guarding the current Fowl heir - a man named Artemis - when he was thirty though. Artemis is nineteen now, my Uncle is forty-eight, and he might have to retire soon."

"When this Artemis has children, are you likely to be the one called upon to guard them?"

"If I get my blue diamond, probably. I'm one of the only Butlers of my generation; I've got two cousins, though - one thirteen right now, the other twelve - both in training with Madame Ko as well."

"And that's all you want from life? A job guarding a snotty kid from an aristocratic family?"

Butler's voice was cold, implying that he didn't approve of Emil questioning his choices any further. "Yes."

A pause, where Emil considered leaving, but Butler spoke again. "There are other things I couldn't be other than a midget actor. I couldn't be a fighter pilot for one: I'm too big to fit into the cockpit comfortably. Haven't been able to do that since I was thirteen and had a growth spurt."

"Are you just saying that you were, at thirteen, flying a Thunderjet?"

Butler smirked. "I was flying a F-16 Falcon in Cambodia."

"That can't be legal, anywhere."

The smirk was overtaken by a large, encompassing grin. "It's not. Although, there are a few places where it's not strictly prohibited."

Emil shook his head and smiled. "That's amazing. You must have been everywhere. I used to travel around with my parents a bit, but recently I've just been staying here, wondering what I should do, where I should go to study at University and so put off any decisions about what I should do for a few years longer. You're lucky to have so much determination in what you're doing; at least you aren't staying at your grandparent's place where the only person you can talk to is the bodyguard."

"I used to live with my grandmother, in Leningrad. That was after my mother died, so my father was a little distraught."

Emil looked guilt, "sorry."

"People are always dying, it's simply part of life. When you remember them, that is when they are still alive."

Emil didn't say anything, because once a sorry had been dismissed, what else could you say about the death of a mother?

Something on your mind, even if it shouldn't be asked at all. "Have you ever killed someone? When you were flying that plane did you…?"

"Yes." A breath in and too wise understanding in a young face - the sign of an old soul. "Yes, I have. By accident. I didn't mean to kill him, I just didn't know my own strength."

"Who was it?"

"My Father's second-cousin, Yuri. He was testing me, seeing my strengths and weaknesses. A punch landed on his temple too heavily. It was not my fault, it was his fault for underestimating me and not dodging the blow."

"How old were you?"

"Nine years old."

"I'm sorry for asking all these questions, Butler. I haven't had anyone to talk to other than my Grandmother for a few weeks now."

"I don't mind, Master Jäger."

"That just feels weird. You call me 'Master Jäger' and I look around for my father. I don't need anyone else telling me who I'm not, but should be. I'm Emil. Just Emil. And maybe while I'm at it I should change my name to Shiiké Van Der Werff or something. What's your first name?"

"Sorry, I'm not allowed to tell my name to a charge, and all members of a family are technically my responsibility."

"Ah, okay. Well…" Emil looked down at the Persian rug lying atop polished floorboards, then back up and met Butler's eyes.

"Butler." Emil said, at the same time that Butler said:

"Master Jäger."

Emil grinned slightly and shook his head; Butler only smiled. The door to Lord Jäger's rooms opened, knocking Butler on the back.

"Ah, Butler, you've met my grandson Emil."

"Yes, sir. Are we leaving now?"

Lord Jäger nodded and smiled at his grandson. "_Großvater_," Emil stood, "could Beire come back and drive me into town. I'm meeting up with a friend, I'll probably stay with him a while. I don't know how long, I'll call."

"Of course, of course. Anything, _Enkel_."

"I'll see you around, Butler, no doubt." Butler nodded, as unobtrusive as someone could be when he is the size of a small country, admittedly an extremely small country.

**Northward-bound on the N2, approaching Navan and Fowl Manor, Co. Meath.**

Butler distinctly didn't say anything to Artemis, the theory being that just because he knew what Artemis expected and wanted him to say didn't mean he had to play along with the script. Artemis had kissed that boy when he'd known Butler was coming, he had intended for Butler to witness it. Butler had various thoughts about why he might possibly want that result, but nothing that he would voice with any certainty. Most options related back to, rather unsurprisingly, Artemis Fowl the First. Most of his charge's actions of late had related back to his father.

Artemis realized that Butler wasn't going to ask the desired questions, so he'd just have to adapt. Life is an extremely adaptable phenomenon. "And what had my father been up to of late, Butler? Anything I wouldn't know about?"

So it had been about Mister Fowl, although then there were a million other variables on top of that revelation. "Possibly, but if you don't know it then I can hardly enlighten you, sir."

Artemis pursed his lips, an entirely unconscious expression that never managed to look unplanned when it landed on his face. "Nothing from your contacts about his activities in Britain?"

"Nothing of significance. He knows you're watching him, so he's tried a few misleading tangents on occasion, but nothing ground-breaking."

Artemis nodded, eyes lowering to scan though a file on his iBook. "And Mother?"

"Just as - forgive me for saying this, Artemis - clueless as ever. Juliet had made remarks about your mother's resemblance to an ostrich lately - all feathers and pretty, large eyes, and head buried in the sand."

"We must forgive her for her little lapses in perception, Butler, she's not always well. Incidentally, in a 80-year study of ostriches, none have been seen to bury their head in the sand when danger approached."

"Really, sir? Of course, I understand about your mother." Butler met Artemis's eyes through the rear-view mirror. "I understand." He repeated, unnecessarily. Artemis's gaze was just as intent and piercing as usual, even after a minute and the gaze being broken thrice. Butler's gut turned at the obvious display of power that went everywhere with Artemis, that was painfully visible in those bright blue eyes, the whites clouded with a lack of sleep. He had to ask.

"Master Artemis, that boy at your school…"

"An acquaintance I made towards the end of last school year. Dana MacCaugry. Bright enough in his own right, though he needs a bit of prodding to get anywhere spectacular."

Butler, even though he had years of training against interrogation and in keeping his voice and face neutral, couldn't keep the half-disapproving sarcasm from his voice. "I'm sure your father will be delighted to find that you've been making friends."

Artemis laughed, and the look on his face, the turn upwards of a corner of lip, made Butler nervous - it never led to anything entirely pleasant. "That's what I thought. But, of course, there is no reason to tell my father just yet, Butler."

"Yes, I would advise you to keep this MacCaugry secret from him a little longer."

"I was planning to." Said Artemis, in the voice he used whenever he had detailed plans that stretched 20 moves ahead of his opponent's own. Butler knew he had been planning something for months now, though Artemis had not yet given him details. He pitied any person who gained such focused attention from Artemis Fowl the Second, even if the recipient was Mister Fowl.

He took a left turn, taking a road that looped around the town of Navan and led towards Fowl Manor. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again, seeing Artemis from a corner of his eye and a red Mazda from the other.

Artemis's dark hair brushed his shoulders as he moved his head to look out the window at the moving, mist-covered Irish countryside. It wasn't that he had started to grow his hair in August last year - _just after meeting this MacCaugry boy?_ wondered Butler - he'd simply persistently neglected to cut it since then. It suited Artemis's purposes to have longer-than-conventional hair - it rebelled against school rules, against what his father's society was trying to see him as, and highlighted his supposed genius eccentricity. And, of course, Dana proclaimed that it was wonderful to push his hands through and feel the long silky strands running between his fingers, but Butler didn't know this yet.

Butler remembered what Mrs. Fowl had mentioned more than once - far more often than necessary, in Butler, Juliet and Timmy's opinions - since last she'd visited her son. "Your mother said last night that she would be very appreciative if you cut your hair, Artemis."

Artemis smirked, "I'm sure she would be. And I'd be far more presentable as the obeying son from my father's point of view as well - unlike every other heir in Europe, frankly."

Artemis ran a hand through the offending waves. "I like it, personally. What do you think, Butler?"

Butler looked in the mirror again: the Mazda had taken the last turn off. Artemis met his eyes, and flicked the hair over his shoulder. "I think it looks fine."

"Does it suit me?"

Butler considered his words. "Yes, it frames your face. It looks… attractive, Master Artemis."

"Thank you, Butler." He turned back to the iBook.

"How do you think it'd look with a tattoo?" He asked a few minutes later.

Butler looked into the mirror yet again; Artemis was looking at him with an incredibly serious expression lodged on his face. "That constitutes bodily harm - I'd have to kill the tattoo artist, and that would make things rather messy."

Artemis grinned. "I'll just have to make sure you don't find out about it: I'll have to get it somewhere you'll never see. A dragon, perhaps? A Celtic knot to proclaim my Roman-Anglo invader heritage? A penguin? - I've always had a fondness for penguins."

Butler laughed. "I think a pink teddy bear with 'KISS ME' written across it - on your posterior of course - would be most amusing."

Artemis laughed out loud, something Butler always marveled over on the rare occasions that it occurred. "Should I ask? I'm sorry, think I have to. Did you get drunk as a teen and go out to get that?"

"It wasn't me. A colleague of mine wasn't able to hold his vodka well, as we found out. He also has shocking taste and is probably colourblind - it was a rather vile colour, almost fuchsia." Butler's nose crinkled at the memory, his equivalent of a cringe.

Artemis out-and-out giggled, but only for a moment, so Butler might have been mistaken. A moment later he asked if he should give his hair a small trim, and maybe a few layers, so Butler didn't know what to think. Not really all that unusual, he mused, simply something Butler had gotten used to over the past sixteen years of his life.

**5th of Feburary, 1979; Jäger Hall**

It was with some surprise that Butler received the news from Frau Faerber that Emil Jäger had returned to the Hall. In the month that Butler had been there Emil had spent only a few days in the house, although he had stayed with some friends in a lodge on the eastern side of the estate for a week or so. The number of times that Butler had been able to talk to him were minimal, but he knew that for Emil to spend time with his grandparents there was something on his mind. The rumours going around the kitchen about Emil were possibly worse than the surprise - Butler tried not to hear them, because he didn't approve of things of that nature being said about anyone, let alone a kid with an identity crisis.

But the most shocking thing was walking into his own bedroom, after not seeing any sign of the Jäger heir all day, to find Emil sitting on the end of the large bed, a decanter of expensive whiskey and a half-filled glass in his hand, its empty twin rolling about on the duvet.

Emil looked up, "'lo, Butler."

"_Guten__ Abend_, Emil."

"Hope you don't mind the intrusion. Want a drink?" Emil placed his glass down on the claret duvet, balancing it, before reaching over to catch the other glass. The drink wobbled but Butler caught it before it fell.

Butler took the glass of whiskey mutely, giving Emil back his own, looking around at the mess of his drawers and the fact that his wardrobe door was swinging with the breeze from the window. "Sorry 'bout that, Butler. I was looking for grog, but I couldn't find anything except a stash of medicinal alcohol and a whole lot of weapons, so I had to grap some from the library." Emil grinned, and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey.

Butler took a sip of his own, more out of force of habit than any urge for a brainfluffing buzz: he'd never really enjoyed the experience of being drunk, he didn't like the idea that he might possibly become out of his own control, or lose the barriers he keeps between himself and the world. But Emil needed someone to talk to, and to do that properly Butler had to be at least slightly tipsy.

Emil flopped backwards on the bed for a minute or two, staring up at the moulded ceiling, careful to hold his glass upright. "How can you like the idea of waiting the rest of your life beside dusty old men? I feel stuffy already and I've only been back in this house for a few hours. How is that what you want? How can you know what you want, when what anyone wants is so flexible and changeable and ruled by emotions that aren't logical at all? And only stumble on reason occasionally by chance? Where's the freedom in anything, if everything we ever do and ever want is based upon our emotions and our environment? Where's your freedom in standing in a tailored black suit at the back of the conference room, doing everything the almighty Lord Jäger tells you to?" Emil finished his glass, and his hand wobbled erratically as he poured himself another shot or three.

"Where's your freedom in flitting about the countryside with friends, wasting time like it'll always be there, while not enjoying it really but doing it all anyway?"

"That's the point, no one ever has any freedom! However much it looks like, it's never enough, and it's never real. But won't there always be time?" Emil laughed, his voice slurring even in that.

"There will always be time, but your own time is speeding past. Stop wasting it, Emil. You could be so much more than what you are right now."

"What am I right now?"

"Nothing pretty. A drunken nineteen-year-old, whose only thoughts towards the world is how much you'd like it to fuck itself."

"Ha ha! Truth, Butler! But what could I possibly do to change myself? And the world's already fucking itself."

"No, it's people who are fucking up the world."

"Ha ha. How'd you become so knowledgeable, Butler? You're just a kid."

"I'm not a kid, and neither are you."

"And if other people remembered that, then everything would be a whole lot better for both of us!"

"You have to make them believe that. There's no way your parents will start to treat you like an adult if you aren't going to put in the effort to try to be that way."

"It's not my parents, it's everyone!"

"But what is it that they're seeing you as? You're going out and getting drunk every night listening to Goth bands with your friends. You don't take any responsibility, and you don't do things for yourself, you're too scared to. And me - most people treat me as a bit of a joke, they underestimate me or don't understand, but that doesn't matter, because I know what and who I am, so their false observations and opinions don't make any difference on me. You… you aren't treated with respect, but you don't treat yourself with respect."

"But how can I respect myself if I won't even do anything that I want to do."

"Won't? Or can't? Are you choosing to not do these things, or would it be impossible to do them because of what people would do to you because of them?"

"I don't know, Butler. Both. Neither. I don't fucking care. The world doesn't care, and my family certainly doesn't." Emil's glass was empty once again, a few drops of bronzed liquid lolling about at the bottom of the glass. The decanter got emptier, and Emil's hand shook as he brought the full-again glass to his lips.

"What would you do, Butler? If there were no consequences, a loop of time not attached to reality and you could go back to the way everything was before? If you knew that no one could ever find out."

Butler shrugged.

"I know what I would do." Emil twisted over on the bed, a few drops of whiskey falling to stain the duvet. He twists back and Butler's .45 Smith and Wesson is clutched in a pale, manicured hand.

"I would take this," Emil bounces the revolver in his hand, "and I would put it to my temple like this…" The barrel rests against the side of his head, just beside his right eye. Butler doesn't know what to do; or, rather, he does know a million things he's meant to do, but none of them are _right_.

"And then what?" Butler asked, his breath in his throat and the knowledge that there's a moonclip of ammunition in that revolver reverberating through his brain.

"I'd go up to my parents and ask them what they'd do to stop me from pulling the trigger."

"And what would they say?" Butler asks.

Emil pulled the gun away slightly, staring at it, ingraining its pattern and purpose into his mind. "Nothing I want to hear."

"And then would you shoot?"

"Them? Probably not. …Myself? I don't know. There's not that much in this world I'll die over. I'm sure you can't say the same."

"Freedom of self and expression is a nice idea, but that isn't the way to go about it, Emil. And it's not worth dying for. Not many things are worth dying for, at least not uselessly."

"But you are meant to give your life up for a charge if they're in danger."

"Maybe. But I've never really been in such a situation, I don't know what I would do."

"Maybe it's not worth dying for, not if your death isn't going to make some impact on the world, but worth losing your name and your inheritance and what you're meant to be?"

Butler said nothing, but Emil was staring at him with such intensity he couldn't keep his silence. "Yes. Yes, being yourself is worth more than the name of Jäger or Butler."

"That's what I'd hoped you'd say, Butler." Emil leant forward, and Butler made to catch him, thinking he'd drunk a few too many glasses of expensive alcohol. Butler started when Emil's lips met his.

A few moments later Emil pulled back and waited for Butler to say something. Butler touched two fingers to his own lips, remembrance of the pressure.

"I thought I was the only one."

Emil laughed. "What an arrogant attitude, Butler, thinking yourself the only gay man in the history of the world. Don't you know about ancient Greece?"

Butler blushed, looking down at the duvet. "I didn't mean that. I meant… you. I didn't think that you… liked me."

Emil leaned forward again to whisper in Butler's ear. "Ditto. I found the magazines in your bottom drawer and thought it was worth a shot."

"Oh." Butler blushed even redder. Emil grinned and brushed his hand over the shaven dome of Butler's head.

"That's what I want to be free to do. I'll ramble on about aristocratic expectations or my father's opinions about my future job, but all the freedom I really want is the freedom to kiss the quite cute bodyguard. Everything else is important, of course, but I could live with being the next in a long line of Jäger lawyers for the rich, powerful and politic - it's hardly uninteresting - but I couldn't live if I was married off to some English chit with a title."

Emil looked down, once again, at the gun Butler had discreetly unloaded while Emil had been talking. "Tell me, Butler, does that give you the power to do whatever you want?"

"Everything comes with rules and guidelines - the more power, the more true that is. No one but Superman can do whatever he wants to - and even then Clark Kent can't."

Emil nodded, and put the gun down again. "Are you going to pretend? Are you ever going to tell people?"

Butler nodded. "I'm not going to pretend to be something I'm not for the rest of my life."

Emil sighed. "What will people say when you tell them?"

"Nothing positive, I can assure you. But I don't need someone else's approval to be gay. It's a bit oxymoronical to need that."

Emil laughed, but only for a moment. He suddenly looked far more sober than he had for the past half hour. "I'll be written out of my inheritance, and my cousins will gain the title and the money. Not that I care much, but the fact that that will happen… And I'm not exaggerating, or at least I don't think I am. I toyed with the idea of finding some accommodating girl and marrying at one point, however revolting it is in retrospect."

"And now?"

"I'll probably go live somewhere else: tell my family and split." Emil fell back onto the bed. Then he pushed himself back up so he could empty the last of the whiskey. "I'm too drunk to talk about this right now." He shut his eyes tight and squeezed the lids together.

Butler lent forward and kissed him, inexpertly and rather messily. Emil opened his eyes - they were wide and a brilliant shade, Peter O'Toole blue. "I want many freedoms, and I know that kissing my principle's grandson shouldn't be high on my list. But, what can I say?"

Emil kissed Butler again, pushing himself up from the bed to maintain the contact. He broke it, and a moment later, his exhalation whispering across Butler's lips: "Who are you?" Emil asked.

Butler opened his eyes. "What do you mean, Emil?"

"I'm Emil. Who are you?"

"I'm Butler."

"One of many, I'm sure. But who are you?"

Butler paused, lazy arousal taking a more definite shape as Emil almost-glared at him. "I don't know who I am, Emil. You've got the answers; you've got everything worked out. You tell me." Butler leaned down for another kiss, surprised by how easy that was once you got started.

Emil shook his head. "You're underage and you don't know what you want or what you are."

"Don't be so presumptuous as to think that is linked to age, Emil."

"I'm not saying it is, Butler. I just want to know who you are. Is this--" Emil waved a hand around noncommittally in the air between them, "-real? Because if you're serious about what you're saying… and what you want to do… then you would be able to give me your first name. You said it yourself: we're both more than our name. You haven't proved that yet."

"Neither have you, Emil."

Emil gave a half smile. "Do you know the meaning of the word 'Jäger', Butler?"

Butler nodded. "A huntsman, a fighter, a chaser."

"And do you know about the Greek goddess, Artemis?"

"Goddess of the hunt." Butler was clearly wondering where this line of questioning was going, waiting for the punch line.

Emil undid the cuff on his shirt and started to roll the sleeve up. And on his upper arm, tattooed in black ink, was Artemis the Hunter. "That's my proof."

Butler burst out laughing. "That's fantastic!" he choked out. The goddess was not exactly portrayed in the way that was usual; in fact, she was closer in appearance to a drag queen than anything else, and the detail on the body art was immaculate.

Emil pushed himself closer to Butler once again, and forced a fierce kiss upon him, which was reciprocated with great enthusiasm. His gaze and voice was at least as powerful as the kiss had been: "What's your name?"

And Butler was suddenly indecisive, his name could be so easily spoken, a few syllables shoved together that gave meaning, but in this instance unlike so many before it would be far more than simply a method of distinguishing between himself and five billion others.

Emil noticed the hesitation and roughly pulled his shirt sleeve down. He stood, slightly unsteady from the whiskey, but not enough to deem him unfit to make his way back to his own room. "I understand, Butler." For the first time Butler noticed just how harsh his last name was on those lips. "When you know who you are tell me."

The door swung open; Emil didn't look back at Butler.

"_Adieu_."

Butler collapsed into a heap of self-decrepitating regret on the duvet.

**6th of February, 1979; Jäger Hall**

When Emil entered the parlour where his grandparents were sitting, Butler behind Lord Jäger's chair as per usual, the room had just about stopped spinning from the hangover, and there was the remote possibility that one day his head would stop throbbing. It was only noon, the headache was bound to subside in a few hours.

"Emil!" His grandmother stood, beckoning to him to join her. "Frau Faerber said you had arrived back last night, but I didn't manage to see you."

"I didn't want to disturb you, _Großmutter_, nor interrupt what you were doing."

"You never interrupt us, Emil." Lady Jäger's blue eyes cast about for something to say.

"Did you know it is Butler's birthday today, Emil? He's only sixteen, if you can believe that. _I_ think he only says he's that so he can get childfares on buses."

Emil grinned at Butler, and Butler gave a slight smile back. Emil moved away from his grandmother in order to shake Butler's hand. "Congratulations, Butler. One step closer to legality."

"Thank you, Master Jäger." He leaned closer and whispered in Emil's ear: "My name is Domovoi. Domovoi Lucien Butler."

"Happy Birthday." Emil let go of the large hand and bent down to give his grandfather a kiss on the cheek.

After dinner Butler knocked on Emil's door. He pushed it open; Emil was reading in a chair in the corner of the room. He looked up, and Butler shut the door behind him with the back of a hand.

"Are you still more important than your name, Emil?"

"Are you?" Emil returned, as he pushed himself up from the chair and left the book lying open on the arm.

"I've already answered that."

"I am if you are… Domovoi."

"Where will you go?"

"America probably. Everyone always ends up in America."

"Will you have to go? Couldn't you try to make things up here?"

"I wouldn't want to try. I can't live here, not like this: I'm not free to be me here. I don't need this world, not at the expense of everything else. And I always preferred the name Shiiké anyway - after the Buddhist warrior, you know. Well, I think that's where it's from; I met a man once who'd changed his name to Shiiké so he could be himself, and his mother still had to call him Marcus." They had both walked towards the other, until now they were standing in the middle of the room, comfortably invading each other's personal space.

"Shiiké doesn't suit you, Emil." Butler - _Domovoi_ - reached out a hand and stoked it down the side of Emil's face until it rested it on his shoulder,

"Oh well, maybe I have to work on that."

"You're sure?" Butler asked hesitantly as his huge hand curled around the back of Emil's neck and pulled him closer.

"Are you?" Emil replied.

"Yes." Butler breathed, the whisper tickling the side of the almost-Ex-Jäger's face.

"Good." Two hands locked around the back of Butler's neck and pulled him down into a possessive kiss.

Butler woke at four am the next morning to the sound of Emil humming some boppy, uncharacteristic song under his breath as he shoved some meager belongings into a soft suitcase.

"You're leaving tonight." He didn't ask but stated, blinking in the soft light of a lamp at the other side of the room.

"I know a place I can stay for a few nights, until I can get a flight to San Francisco or something. I wrote a letter to my parents," he said, holding up a piece of thin stationary, "want to listen to it?"

Butler nodded.

He cleared his throat and made to read. "'After thoroughly debauching the underage, male bodyguard I decided that I like doing naughty things to little boys and have decided to go to America, where I shall live a life of promiscuity as a drag queen until I die of a drug overdose at age twenty-three. I'm sorry, the life of chastity, heterosexuality and monogamy are not for me. I'm sure you understand. Love, Emil (sorry, not Emil, I've changed my name to Shiiké the Superb)'."

Butler laughed. "I'm sure they'll appreciate that."

"I'm not that verbose, all I could say was 'I'm leaving, sorry. I'll keep in touch. Love, Emil.' And that took me a good ten minutes to write. I barely managed it at that." He dropped the sheet on a table and rubbed an unfallen tear from his eye. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Get out of your room before some member of the staff finds me, as first thing." Emil grinned. "Then I'll finish my time here with your grandfather, even if he's an old stodgier, and I'll go back to Madame Ko. I want to finish my training and get a Blue Diamond - I wouldn't fit into an ordinary school or anything. My Family won't like me much, but I can certainly earn their respect."

Emil nodded. "I'll write to you, Domovoi."

Butler rolled out of the bed and pulled a piece of paper from a pad and a found a pen. He scribbled down an address in Switzerland. "This is where I stay with Madame Ko. Address it to Domovoi or either of my cousins might get it."

Emil pulled closed the suitcase, zipped it up, then clipped the straps together. Butler pulled on his pants and shirt, and took the suitcase himself. Emil held open the door to let him through, then ran back to get a diary of some sort from the desk drawer, holding it tight against his chest.

They didn't speak going through the halls, or when they stopped at the breakfast room to drop the note where it could be seen on the table.

Butler put the suitcase onto the passenger seat of Emil's car and shut the door quietly. "Goodbye, Emil."

Emil leaned over and kissed him softly. "Goodbye, Domovoi."

Butler nodded, then moved out of the way so Emil wouldn't hit him on the way out.

Butler didn't say anything as he stood, silent as always and as should be, behind Lord Jäger's chair the next morning as the Jägers read the simple note.

Neither Emil nor Butler ever regreted their decisions, even though circumstances deteriorated over the next few years. They kept in contact till Emil's death in 1991.


End file.
